


The Bang and the Clatter

by Snegurochka



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-05
Updated: 2010-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snegurochka/pseuds/Snegurochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Suddenly, Tom's warm hand is covering James's, and James feels his fist relax under Tom's stroking thumb. "It's you who is extraordinary, James," whispers Tom, seeking James's gaze. "Not your brother. Don't ever forget that."</i></p><p>9,900 words. R. Tom Riddle/James Jr., with some glimpses of Albus Severus, Harry, and Ginny. Dark themes, but nothing worse than canon. Written for nextgendarkfest. May 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bang and the Clatter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for nextgendarkfest, which I didn't think I'd have time for... until I saw this prompt -- _James has always been jealous of the attention his father and younger brother get. Enter Harry's not-quite-destroyed enemy, seductive and promising James all the fame and power he ever wanted_ \-- and had to make a mad grab for it. :) The title is from U2. Many thanks to secretsolitaire and melusinahp for the beta work.

**i. open**

The man's suit is fresh like a thunderstorm. That's the first thing James notices. When he glances back again, he notes the man's eyes (cold like sleet) and his coffee (black like soot).

He grips his quill for a moment, mashing his lips together, and then crumples the parchment with his free hand. Fuck. More weather metaphors. Professor Smythe would have a field day with the red ink. He gazes across the café again, distracted by the way the cashier's apron sits low on his hips, and the way he smirks at the back of the customer who just pocketed her change without flipping even a penny into his tip jar. She'll be getting decaf now, James knows. He catches the cashier's eye briefly and smirks back.

He likes these kinds of moments. He wishes they wrote themselves more easily, though.

When he moves his gaze again, he is chewing thoughtfully on the end of his quill. It tastes like dust, but he thinks it will harden him, make him more resilient, if he experiences this bit of discomfort while in his creative process.

The man in the charcoal suit is watching him.

"A poet."

James blinks, removing the quill from his mouth. The café is small, but it's not as though he is sitting beside the man.

"Yes, you." The man tilts his head to the side, just a bit, regarding James. Then he lifts his crisp white cup to his mouth and sips. His hand is steady, James notices, and his feet don't bob up and down on the ground the way James's tend to after too much coffee.

"Me?" James looks around.

When he trains his gaze on the man in the suit once more, he is not smiling at him like men sometimes do, as though they want to chat him up and take him home. He isn't sure how he feels about that; generally, he wishes blokes his own age, like that cashier, would give him the time of day, but he can't deny this older man is appealing.

Now that he looks carefully, though, _really _looks, this man isn't that old. He's younger than Dad but older than Teddy, James would wager, as though he's seen enough of the world but not yet let it wrinkle him. He also still isn't smiling, which can only mean he isn't interested in idle chatter. _A poet_. Well, yes, James thinks. I bloody well am. What's it to you?

"Come here, then, poet." The man is barely even looking at James. He folds his newspaper, dragging his thumbnail across the seam so sharply it nearly tears.

James opens his mouth to respond, surveying his messy table. He debates the offer for about five seconds but then decides that the place is public enough, thus likely saving him from any danger of abduction, and that maybe if the cute cashier saw him chatting up this man in the suit – this _important_ man, James decides, if he is wearing such an impeccable thing and drinking his coffee as though he cannot be bothered with actual work in the middle of a Thursday because his cadre of assistants is doing it all for him – it might look as though James has options, and then the cashier might be more inclined to give him more than just a passing smirk next time he orders coffee. He leaves the table messy but takes his quill.

The man watches him as he sits down, the chair leg rattling the table just enough to send a drop of coffee flipping out of the man's perfect cup and landing with a splash in the saucer. "Obedient." A nod, but still no smile.

James frowns at that. Albus is the obedient one, dammit. What kind of rebel son would James be, what kind of _poet_, if he were only interested in following orders?

The man smiles at last, a faint turn of his lips. "Obedience does not forestall rebellion, Mr Potter, never fear. Your secret shall be safe with me."

James stares.

***

**ii. close**

Later, James will arrive home and remove his coat, hanging it neatly on the rack by the door the way Mum insists.

Al will poke his head out from the kitchen, a sandwich flapping open in one hand while a half-chewed bite sits in his cheek. "Hey," he'll say, swallowing. "Want half?"

And won't that just kick James in the balls, won't it just slam into him and make him grip his stomach for a moment, stumbling down the hallway to the kitchen even while he shakes his head, trying not to sick up, because why does Albus have to be so fucking generous? Why _now_, of all times, to decide to offer him half a bloody sandwich like they've always been best mates?

Maybe they always have been, James's subconscious will unhelpfully supply, and he has been too wrapped up in his own injustices to see it.

"Where're Mum and Dad?" James will mumble instead, opening the fridge and bending down to catch his breath, not able to look at his brother.

He'll hear Al swallow another bite and nearly hear the accompanying shrug. "Mum went upstairs with a headache awhile ago, told me to make a sandwich for dinner. Dad got called in for some emergency."

James will freeze, the cool air of the fridge curling around his ears. No. No, no, _no_.

What has he done?

***

**iii. lie**

"How do you know my name?" demands James, leaning back in his new chair and eyeing the man in the charcoal suit. "Who are you?"

The man holds his gaze, his face blank but his eyes fierce. It occurs to James that maybe no one has ever questioned this man like that. He is a solicitor, maybe, someone high up on the Wizengamot. He sounds English but his speech patterns are a bit off; maybe he has spent time on the Continent, someone in the Dutch or German Ministries. Someone who is used to being known. Someone who is used to knowing. "All in due time," the man says at last, dabbing his lips with the corners of a linen napkin even though he has eaten nothing.

James needs something to fidget with. His nervous energy is driving him nuts. He gestures to the counter for another coffee, but the cashier doesn't see him. He tries again before pushing his chair out and making to rise.

"He can't see you," the man says, folding the napkin and placing it neatly over the perfectly creased newspaper. He picks up his coffee cup again – still steaming, James notices, despite the fact that he has been nursing it for over an hour. Still full, too. James's eyes narrow.

"Then I'll go to the counter to order it." The chair squeaks against the polished floor.

"That's not what I meant. And I would rather you didn't."

James hesitates, blinks, shifts. Without quite knowing why, he lowers himself back into the chair. Suddenly fearful, he snakes his hand down to his side and runs his thumb over his wand in the side pocket of his trousers.

"I've frightened you," the man says, his features softening. "That was not my intent. Come." He gestures over the table for James's hand, and James slowly lifts it away from his wand, coming to rest on the edge of the table. "Please." The man gestures again. "Let me see your hand."

"No," snaps James, balling his hand into a fist in his lap. A possibility suddenly overtakes him. He has heard about things like this – in History of Magic class at school, from Dad sometimes after a case, even, _bloody hell_, even from Al, with all the reading he does about Dark magic just to impress Dad. "You've done a spell," accuses James, his mouth falling open. "You're compelling me! Who are you?"

The man only looks amused. "I told you that answer would come, but I see that patience is not one of your virtues." Here he pauses, his dark gaze sweeping down James's torso – to his button-down shirt with the open collar, James imagines; to the way his sleeves are rolled up his forearms and ink from his quill smudges his fingertips – and back up. "However," he continues, "I did not come here to argue with you. My name is Tom."

James considers this name. It is too simple, too common. He expected something dashing, he now realises, something else when he was back at his own table, considering how to describe this beautiful stranger – Marc-Alain, perhaps, or Andreas. _Tom_. He rolls the word around in his mouth and decides it will do. There is something about the sharpness of it, the lightning-fast exhalation of breath that comes when his tongue pushes the _T_ off the roof of his mouth, and James realises too late that he has tried saying the name out loud.

"Excellent," says Tom, no hint of irony to his voice, as though it really is good news that James can understand simple English. "Now. I am not in the business of using magic to _compel_." He wrinkles his nose only slightly. James watches, fascinated. It makes Tom look years younger, that simple expression of distaste, like Lily used to look when she didn't get her favourite ice cream flavour. "It has so many more uses, don't you agree?"

James nods, unsure of what to say. "But, you told me to sit down and I did." He frowns at the accusatory note in his voice. Petulance won't go far with this man, James is certain.

He's right. Tom's dark eyes flash. "Then let me tell you to go jump on the counter there and perform a jig," he snaps, gesturing.

James looks over at the counter and then back at Tom. He feels nothing.

Tom smiles then, and James finds himself melting a little bit. The smile is surprisingly gentle, just a soft curve of lips in an otherwise sharp face. Even the corners of Tom's eyes seem to uncrinkle and relax as he regards James. "Good," he says quietly. "Now, I think you'll find your coffee full, so let's abandon this idea of approaching the counter. We're quite invisible from Muggles at this table, for one, and I should find myself becoming entirely too jealous of that ragged barista you wish to chat up, for another." He wets his lips, the smile fading.

"I– okay." James processes this, focusing on that surprising final admission first. He gives Tom what he hopes is a coy look, lowering his lashes. "You'd be jealous, really?"

"I would." James chances a peek at Tom to find him regarding James intently. His fingers play around the edge of his cup, slowly slipping over the porcelain. "I don't make a habit of inviting handsome young men to share a table with me, you know."

James gives a nervous chuckle. "No, I guess a bloke like you wouldn't have to." Still smiling, he thinks to glance down at his cup, which is indeed full of steaming coffee. He picks it up and sips it, checking for sugar.

Tom raises an eyebrow.

"How'd you do that?" James leans forward playfully, as if he'd very much like a more thorough look inside the folds of Tom's expensive suit. "Where's your wand?"

Tom lowers his eyes, smiling to himself. "Overrated."

Swallowing, James exhales a short laugh. "Nice trick. Do you give lessons?"

"I might," says Tom. "Are you looking for a teacher?"

James sits back in his chair, breathing heavily. Fear and exhilaration seem to be doing battle up and down his spine.

"Lesson number one," continues Tom, his voice low as he nods towards James's cup. "I'm glad you trust me enough to drink that."

James freezes, his fingers tightening around the handle. They watch each other for a long moment before Tom smiles again, looking away.

"_James_," he chides gently. "Use your mind. I know you are cleverer than this, cleverer than anyone has ever given you credit for. If I'd meant to poison you, it would already be done."

James sets the cup down carefully but it still rattles against the saucer. His stomach does a slow, sickening flip. "Who are you?" whispers James again, determined, this time, to get an answer.

***

**iv. bridge**

Later, sitting at the kitchen table with Al and trying not to retch on his half sandwich, James will convince himself that it is all a coincidence – his mother's headache, his father's emergency.

Al, oblivious as only Al can be, will start chattering about Day Eight Thousand (or so it seems to James) of Auror training and all the unutterably important shit he has learned. James will nod as thoughtfully as he can, because isn't that what he has always done? Hasn't he always joined the rest of the family in standing back to applaud Al's achievements? Prefect, Head Boy, youngest Auror trainee since the great Harry Potter himself... James figures Al and his boring, perfect girlfriend have probably even taken a chastity vow, just to make sure the image isn't tarnished.

He will swallow a cold lump of ham and bread, and his thoughtful nodding will turn venomous.

"So _then_," Al will finish with a laugh, "McCready says, 'Don't tell me you actually wasted your time on the Ministry's dime getting the kittens _and_ the mother down!' But what was I supposed to do? I didn't know it was a bloody prank! _New Auror Potter kills kittens_, yeah, that's all the publicity I need, eh?" He will take a drink from his pumpkin juice and wipe his hand over his mouth, still grinning.

James will blink at him, a haze stealing over his mind, and suddenly he won't be entirely sure that he _doesn't_ want Tom Riddle to break down their door and string James's brother up on a meat hook for the rest of fucking eternity.

Maybe it really is like Tom said: _The meek shall certainly never inherit the earth_.

***

**v. paint**

"Who am I, who am I?" Tom waves his hand over the table absently. He sighs. "Once again, _poet_, use your mind. If you are truly a creative sort, you should have keen observation skills, should you not?"

James drinks his coffee and considers this. He glances over his shoulder at the abandoned papers, full of blotched ink, he left on his own table across the café. "Yeah."

"Well, then." Tom sinks back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and regarding James. One elegant finger traces the rim of his cup. "What have you observed about me so far?"

James is momentarily distracted by the path of that finger, but he scrunches his brow and thinks. "Your name is Tom," he begins, and immediately he can tell that Tom is exasperated with him. "No, I mean, I didn't observe that; you told me. I know. I was just getting started." He doesn't know why, but he feels the need to impress this man, and not only because he is handsome and authoritative and has a mouth James can't quite stop fantasising about. There is something else about him, something else drawing James in.

"You're thinking that it is too common," Tom sneers, turning to gaze out the window. "You are right, of course. It is." When he turns back to James, he is breathing deeply through his nostrils. James watches them flare. "You're named after your grandfather, aren't you?"

James blinks, nods.

"And I my father. Terrible mistakes, for both of us."

James shrugs a little bit but mostly just continues to watch, curious.

"Having not been given the opportunity from birth to be our own men," Tom continues, "it is up to us, James, to distinguish ourselves. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I– yeah. I guess. Wait, how do you know so much about me?"

"All in due time," repeats Tom. His gaze drops to his still-steaming cup, as though the answers to the universe might be swirling there in the black liquid. "First, you were telling me about myself." His face, pinched tight while discussing his hated name, relaxes again, and he nods at James to continue.

"Right. Okay. Well, you refilled my coffee without a wand or a word, so not only do I know you're a wizard, but I'm thinking you're a pretty good one, too."

That slow smile is back. "I am indeed a pretty good wizard." His voice slides mockingly over the adjectives, as though James has just called the Nile a pretty good stream.

"And, uh, you joked about poisoning me, so– I mean, I hope it was a joke." He frowns at his coffee again. "So, you either have a bloody dark sense of humour, or you're dangerous enough that I probably shouldn't actually be sitting here having a cuppa with you."

Tom is quiet for a moment, and James is just about to soldier on when Tom murmurs, "I assume you have learned your definition of _dangerous_ from your father. Tell me, have you always gone through your life fearing the unknown like this?"

James stares at him, anger welling up in his chest, because yeah, of course he's gone through his life being afraid of the next monster that might come for his family; he and Al and Lily could use a wand at age two, with Dad and Aunt Hermione running drills for home invasion every other weekend, even while Mum and Uncle Ron stood by, rolling their eyes. "No, and fuck you," he says, his voice shaking as he pushes his chair back and rises. "I'm not playing this game anymore. How do you know my father, and me? How do you know I was named after my grandfather? You've got to be someone from the war, but you're too young, and you're–" He points his finger in accusation, not sure what he's charging and whether or not it will stick.

"I'm what?" says Tom calmly, sipping his coffee again.

"You're too... normal."

"Ah." Tom sets the cup down. "I don't look like a Death Eater, is that it?"

James sits down again, embarrassed by the outburst. He's being ridiculous. He looks at his hands, deflating.

"That's quite all right, James. I am not one; you can be assured of that." He pauses. "Let's just say that I am an old friend of your mother's. And your father's, for that matter. And your grandfather's, although–" he turns solemn – "he might not have characterised our relationship as friendship, per se."

James looks up again, his eyes wide.

"Ah, no. You have misunderstood me, although I won't deny that your grandfather was an attractive man in his own right, save those garish glasses."

James's mouth falls open.

"But you are not thinking with your _mind_, James. Consider for a moment whether a wizard like myself – a _pretty good_ one, I think you have already determined – would debase himself by taking a lover who had consorted with Mudbloods." As he speaks, Tom's mouth twists into an ugly line, as though he is barely controlling his rage, as though the foul words he uses are just the tip of the iceberg of what he might be capable of.

James recoils, but Tom presses on.

"To what end? I am not averse to pleasure when I have need," he continues, his tone even, "but a man must be careful, James." His eyes soften at this, and he regards James as if he knows a great secret. Maybe he does. "That prick of yours might be useful–" he nods down at James's trousers, and James feels his face heat – "but there are men who would take advantage of your eagerness and use it against you. You must use it against _them_ before they get the chance."

The words are rolling over James like a wave, the word _prick_ coming from those full lips and in that vaguely angered tone of voice doing inappropriate things to James's body. How can he even have guessed that James is interested in men, not women, that he _was_ eyeing that cute cashier earlier and planning to chat him up? Tom's elegant fingers tracing the cup before would feel incredible on his skin, James is certain, wrapping around his cock and tugging just a bit too hard. He parts his lips and feels them dry out as his breath rushes past them too quickly.

"As for your name," continues Tom, as if oblivious to James's thoughts, "well, that is common knowledge. All three of Harry Potter's children have quite famous names. I must say – and I mean no disrespect to you by saying so – your brother's is the most intriguing to me. Albus _and_ Severus, is that correct?"

James nods.

"Yes." Tom wets his lips, his face unreadable. "Most intriguing. He is quite a powerful wizard himself, is he not? And only seventeen." He tilts his head, as if waiting for James to react. His daydreams vanishing, James comes to his senses with a thud. Without even knowing it, James has clenched his hands into fists.

"He's no better than anyone else," he hears himself grumbling.

Suddenly, Tom's warm hand is covering James's, and James feels his fist relax under Tom's stroking thumb. "No," whispers Tom, seeking James's gaze. "He's not. It's you who is extraordinary, James. Not your brother. Don't ever forget that."

***

**vi. yearn**

Later, Al will take their sandwich plates to the sink like the good boy he is, and James will sit at the table, scrubbing his face with his hands and trying to let go of the anger.

A moment later, Dad will burst through the Floo calling for them and then storming into the kitchen, his boots cracking on the tiles and his robes swirling behind him. James has always been both awed and terrified by the sight of his father in his Auror robes, by the way his green eyes glitter when he's on the hunt.

"Get to the basement," Dad will bark, flinging his arm out and pointing. "_Now_. Where's your mother?" His voice will creak a little at that.

"Upstairs," Al will say, blinking rapidly. "What is it, Dad? Can I help?"

"This isn't a drill," Dad will tell him, glancing at James only as an afterthought. "The Headmistress is hiding Lily and locking down the school, but the best we can do for you two is charm the basement against intruders. Bring some water and your wands and get down there. I'll charm it from here." He will turn to call over his shoulder. "Ginny!"

James will notice that Dad's control is slipping. This is real. He is still in charge, like with any other case, but he's also about to crumble. James will never have seen it before and it will terrify him. If Dad can't keep it together, and Al takes all his cues from Dad, then Al will surely be the next to go. James will already be able to see Al's hands begin to shake. Brightest wizard in a generation, yeah, right. Some heroes the pair of them are.

"Who's after us?" Al will whisper, his face white.

Dad will stop rummaging in drawers and drawing his wand in patterns across the windows. He will turn to Al, shaking his head as if in disbelief. "I don't know how the hell he's done it, but he's back, and he's coming for us."

"Dad," Al will beg, as James feels the bile welling up in his throat. "_Who_?"

Dad will look back and forth between James and Al, and James will shudder at the way Dad's jaw twitches and his eyes scream fear. It's not for himself, James will understand – Harry Potter faced the greatest evil the Wizarding world could throw at him and came away victorious – but for his family. His disposable first son, perhaps, but more so his cherished second.

"Who?" Al will whisper again, but it is James who will supply the answer.

"Tom Riddle."

As one, Dad and Al will turn to stare at him.

***

**vii. batter**

Tom's face has a precision to it that appeals to James. In profile, he is beautiful; straight on, he is slightly terrifying. His jaw is strong and his cheekbones high. Deep eyes seem fathomless as they regard James too closely. As they have been talking, Tom has reached up and loosened the knot of his tie, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt afterwards. He still looks impeccable but with the slight impression of dishabille. In comparison, the barista with his tight t-shirt looks sloppy and uncouth all of a sudden. James casts a glance at him and begins to feel only disgust. He bets the bloke would all too readily have accepted James's advances, had he made them. He imagines he could have had the man on his knees in the back storeroom in less than four minutes if he'd wished, his mouth moving over James's cock and begging to swallow every drop.

James looks away, disgusted. No, a man like Tom is much more worth James's time. He makes _sense_ to James somehow, these things he has been saying, even the shocking parts. And his three-piece suit, dark and sculpted and aristocratic in a way that reminds James of the past, it is worth coveting, James decides. It doesn't mask the man's attributes so much as enhance them, draw them in full.

"What are you thinking?"

James opens his mouth to respond but as he does so, a shiver runs through him. He suspects the question was rhetorical. "I... was thinking about you." There is no sense lying, he figures.

Tom brushes a strand of dark hair off his forehead. "What about me?"

"That... Christ." James huffs a laugh, wishing there was something stronger in that coffee. "That I'm still not sure who you are, but I know you're important, and you've got more magic in your little finger than I think I'll ever have, even with my wand. Maybe you're some mad war buff who knows a little bit too much about my family, but–" He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck to gather his courage.

Tom leans forward, regarding James from under dark lashes. "But what?"

James's gaze locks on Tom and he feels swept away by the intensity of it. "But you're the most attractive man I've met maybe, uh, ever," he continues breathlessly, "and I'm pretty sure you don't do casual, and maybe you don't even do men, although I think you probably do. But, yeah, if you do, I'm thinking that I'd really like you to take me home with you about now." He swallows, his face burning and his body aching at the possibility, ever so slight, that Tom might say yes. One look at Tom's expression, though, and James immediately crawls inside himself, wishing he could pull a rope to drag the words back in with him.

"I see."

James wilts. "Forget it. Sorry. I–"

Tom raises one hand to stop him, and on cue, James falls silent. "Stand by your convictions, James. You're attracted to me. You admitted as much. Why deny it now?"

Rubbing his eyes, James pushes down a laugh. "Um, because that didn't exactly go as smoothly as it did in my head."

Tom regards him for a long, agonising moment. "You are nineteen."

James nods.

"You have sex with men. Or, rather, you wish to."

James frowns. "Yeah, I wish to. And I _have_, thanks."

"Does your father know?"

The air leaves James's lungs. Great. Just fucking great. After three years of being so bloody careful, of trying so hard not to add one more thing to that list James is sure Dad keeps, the one called _James's Known Failures_, now he's gone and outed himself to some stranger who is probably going to tell his father. _Fuck_.

"Ah." Tom sits back. "I thought not."

"Look, just, if you don't want to, fine, I don't care, but why the fuck do you have to bring my dad into it?" He fumbles in his pockets until he finds his cigarettes. Al wants him to quit, but fuck it; maybe Al shouldn't get everything he wants all the time. He places it between his lips and searches for his wand, but before he can pull it out, he takes a startled breath and finds that the end of the fag flares. He meets Tom's eyes. "Do you _ever_ use a wand?"

"Only for the big things," he deadpans, and James shakes his head, grinning in disbelief as he takes a drag. He immediately feels calmer. "And you have misunderstood me," Tom continues. "You are nineteen, you are attracted to men, and I've already told you I'm interested. Why don't you take me home with _you_?" he adds, the words quiet but fierce. "I promise not to tell your father."

"Ah." James's momentary elation at his victory swirls away. "Well, I live with him, see, so that won't exactly work." He has never hated his family more. He should have his own flat by now; he knows he should. He refuses to take one of the soul-sucking Ministry jobs Aunt Hermione keeps offering him, though, even if it would mean a steady paycheque. No wonder his experience has been limited to locker room fumbles at school and the odd blow job in the dirty loo of a club. _Fuck_.

"Do you, now?" Tom tilts his head to the side, his voice still low and silky. "It's quite a state secret, where Harry Potter lives." He rolls his eyes and nearly laughs.

It's infectious, the ridiculousness of it when James hears it put like that. He chuckles. "Yeah. He's an Auror, so he gets pretty paranoid about stuff like that."

Tom reaches across the table and plucks the cigarette from James's fingers, bringing it to his own mouth. His lips close around it and the end flares as he takes a drag, his cheeks drawing in and his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When his chest is full, he removes the fag from his mouth and purses his lips. A slow, slippery stream of smoke escapes his lips and swirls to the ceiling. James watches his mouth, mesmerised. "Come here."

Tom taps the cigarette on his saucer and then reaches for James, his fingers sliding over James's jaw before slipping around the back of his neck. His stomach fluttering, James leans forward, dragging his chair closer to the table and rising slightly out of it. When Tom's lips are nearly brushing his own, Tom tightens his hand around James's neck, pausing.

"Tell me what you want, and I'll tell you if I can give it to you."

James moans without meaning to, his dick thickening and his blood warming throughout his body. "I– this is good, for now." He smiles, leaning in further, and Tom seems satisfied with that. Their lips meet, and James can barely care where they are and who might be watching. Tom doesn't waste time teasing him; he takes control of the kiss straight away, his fingers splayed in the back of James's hair and his thumb firm over James's jaw. His lips are warm and insistent, his tongue thick where it meets James's, and James feels electricity burn down to his toes. An older man, Christ, of _course_ – why hasn't he thought of that before? He should never have wasted his youth messing about in the Quidditch locker rooms with blokes who'd only recently discovered where their dicks even _were_, never mind how to use them for another's pleasure.

And this isn't even about their dicks, yet James is completely lost. He growls and lunges forward, reaching for Tom's collar before sliding his fingers up his neck. Tom meets him at every turn, deepening the kiss with a confidence that makes James weak. He has never been kissed like this. He's never even thought about being kissed like this.

Tom pulls back at last, keeping James's bottom lip between his teeth for an extra second before releasing it. "Never be ashamed of who you are," he murmurs against James's stained mouth. "You have powers beyond your wildest dreams, James Potter, but you must learn how to use them. This," he adds, sitting back in his chair, "is a very good start."

James can only make a gurgling noise, his elbows hitting the table. He breathes heavily, his eyes locked on Tom. "Can I keep you?" he says, grinning, and his stomach does another flip when Tom smiles back at him.

"Of course."

James laughs, forgetting everything else. "That was easy."

Tom lifts one shoulder. He hesitates, watching James, and then seems to make a decision. "Now that you are a bit more relaxed, can I do something?"

"Does it involve getting naked in the loo?"

Tom narrows his eyes, but that controlled smile still makes James melt. "No. Not yet," he adds. "Do you know Occlumency?"

James sighs, rubbing his eyes. "_No_, but thanks for reminding me. That's Al's thing." He can't keep the bitterness from his voice. "Dad tried for years to teach me, but I'm bollocks at it."

Tom's breathing speeds up, a glint in his eye. "Good," he murmurs.

James opens his mouth to respond, unsure where this conversation is going, but he is cut off by Tom's thumb and forefinger cradling his chin and one fierce, whispered word washing over him.

"_Legilimens_."

***

**viii. pull**

Later, Dad will stare at him. "How did you know that?" Dad will ask, aghast, and James will hesitate only a fraction before shrugging.

"Just a guess."

"Are you– _what_?" It will be Al's turn now, Dad's little minion, turning on him with flaming green eyes. "How could you possibly _guess_ that Voldemort himself is alive again and– and–" He will turn to Dad for help, since he will not actually know what the hell he's talking about. As usual. "Are you insane?"

James will snap. "No, I'm not fucking insane. Fuck you. Maybe I know things, ever think of that?"

"James." Dad's voice will be controlled again, clear and even. Damn him. "What do you know? Has Riddle – _Tom_ – has he contacted you?"

James will recall one of Tom's lessons: the truly powerful have no need to lie to get what they deserve. "Yeah," he will say, squaring his shoulders. "I talked to him earlier." What does it matter? Clearly, James will reason, Tom isn't coming and James will have panicked for nothing. Besides, it isn't as though Voldemort himself showed up one day and took James for coffee. This is different.

Tom is different. Isn't he?

"You– oh. Oh, Christ." Dad will reach behind him for the wall, staggering against it. His next words will be a forced whisper. "What did he say?"

And then James will feel it. Tom promised it would come, and now James will understand the way power truly _feels_. But it will confuse him. Where is this power coming from? When he realises it, James will begin to tremble:

Dad is afraid. Dad is fucking scared for the first time James will have ever seen, maybe for his family, maybe just for Al, but it won't matter.

"He– he told me I could help him," James will whisper, his eyes darting between Dad and Al, and he will wait for them to reassure him, to tell him it will all be okay.

But they won't. Dad and Al will almost wither entirely away at that, blinking between each other and James as the blood drains from their faces. For the first time in his life, James will know something they don't, _have_ something they can't. It should exhilarate him, but he won't be able to stop shaking.

He has never been the powerful one in the family. Now that he is supposed to be, he will be terrified.

***

**ix. act**

James feels pressure at his temples but then only release, as though every care in the world has been lifted from his mind. He senses his consciousness opening up like a cardboard box split on each side. His mind blooms and then flops open, each of the four walls softly falling backward and hitting the dust.

"That's very good, James." Tom's voice floats over him from the inside. "It feels good to let go, doesn't it?"

James nods, a rush of black and colour exploding behind his eyes.

Tom's voice brushes past his ear, making him shiver. "Now. Show me."

James isn't sure if the moan he hears is real or imagined, his or Tom's, but he does know that it's Tom's voice that has caused it, the gentleness belied by a strength James has never known in another wizard before. Images begin to sweep across his mind in wisps, and James feels himself leaning forward, reaching out to try to catch them.

There he is with Tom in the loo of the café, tugging on Tom's tie and attacking his neck with harsh kisses while Tom whispers encouragement in his ear.

There they are at James's writing desk at home, half-finished poems about death or angels littering the surface. Tom pushes James's shirt off his shoulders and runs his hands over James's chest. With a whispered word James's trousers disappear, and Tom is instructing him to turn around. Even as he watches the scene from afar, James feels the soft scrape of fabric against his skin as Tom, fully clothed, curves over his back and dips his fingers low on James's body.

There they are at – Christ, where is it? The _Ministry_? Oh fuck, oh God, it's Dad's office, empty save the whirring devices and used furniture, and James is riding Tom's cock in Dad's leather chair. James gasps out loud, both in the image and in real time, he is sure of it, because he can feel, he can _feel_, oh, oh, and he can see every move Tom makes, every lift of his hips as James clutches his hands in the fabric of that starched white shirt. The knot of Tom's tie is loosened like before, his open trousers brushing between James's bare legs, and James buries his head in the crook of Tom's neck. "That's it, James," Tom murmurs against James's hair. "Take your pleasure from me. Let me do this for you." James groans at the low burn of Tom pushing inside him, the ache of his thighs as he lifts himself up and down. "Later, James," continues Tom, soothingly, "later, you will do something for me..."

The image shifts again when James comes, and he feels boneless, sated, until he sees swirls of Al and Lily and Mum and – no, wait, what? He frowns and concentrates, tries to block the images out, and only then does he realise what Tom is doing.

"No," he says feebly, pushing at nothing. "Don't– what are you doing?"

"Shhh." He hears Tom's voice again. "I just want to see. Will you let me?"

James doesn't know. He has never encountered something like this before, and he is at once scared and exhilarated. The sex, _God_, he wants the sex so much. "Okay," he mumbles, trying to relax again.

Tom's voice creeps up the edges of his mind again, smooth and formidable. "Show me Albus Severus," he says quietly. "Show me the hate."

_No_, James wants to say. _Fuck off_. But his mind seems to have its own plan, it is beyond his control now, and images of Al begin swirling before him. He can feel Tom picking through them, but James's initial panic is soon replaced with relief. Finally, someone will know. Someone will see how he has been treated. He pushes some images forward.

The _Prophet_ interview when they were all kids, the first Dad had given in years. "Albus _and_ Severus, Mr Potter!" the reporter titters. "He must be a very special child to have such a name." Dad laughs, ruffling Al's hair. "Yeah, he sure is." James peeks out from behind the kitchen door. "And your other children?" Dad smiles. "Yeah, named after my parents." Even then, James remembers scowling. With that name, Al got to line up with the greatest wizard in the world and the greatest spy of the war, when all James and Lily got were Gran and Papa. He asks Dad about that later, when the reporter leaves. Dad furrows his brow, taking James's hand. "Well," he says, rubbing his chin with the other, "your Papa was a great man. He did many great things, just like Al's namesakes." That is a lie, James already knows. Papa did nothing in the war but die.

"It isn't fair," Tom's voice murmurs, and James can feel his heart racing. "You deserve a great name."

He pushes another image forward, of Al wearing his Prefect badge and giving a speech in Albus Dumbledore's honour at the Ministry. Dad is in the wings, beaming, and delighted audience members visibly point between them, whispering to each other about the uncanny resemblance. Mum, Lily and James stand at the back like the ginger-haired help.

Al makes the papers again at sixteen for hunting down a fucking troll in the Forbidden Forest. "The New Chosen One?" the headlines blare, and in the interview that follows, Dad doesn't even mention he has other children.

"Show me, James," Tom says, his fingers warm over James's chest and biceps. "Someone deserves to know how you have been overlooked all these years."

There is James just back from Hogwarts at seventeen, two N.E.W.T.s in hand that he's really damn proud of, thanks, sitting at the kitchen table with Dad while Al pretends to make a sandwich. "It's just, what do you want to do with your life, James?" James shoots daggers at Al over Dad's shoulder, because he's already signed up for six N.E.W.T. classes next year, the smug fucker, and already got a spot waiting for him in Auror training. "Dunno," James mumbles. "Thought I'd like to write." Dad sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Oh. Okay, I mean, that's great. But just, what kind of career do you want?"

"_Career_?" Tom's silky, understanding laughter fills James's head. "What utter bollocks."

James feels a warm rush, surprised by the language but delighted that someone finally understands.

"Great men don't need _careers_, working like a slave for the benefit of others. Great men like you and me, James–" Tom's voice drops down low – "we are meant to rule, not to toil."

A ripple of slow, steady pleasure snakes through James's body as Tom's voice fades. It begins at his toes and swirls upwards, caressing his thighs, between his legs, sliding over his thickening cock, up over his abdomen as he clenches it, and then circling his torso, shoulder blades, and the dip of his neck. When it reaches his face, invisible breath warms his cheek and full lips sweep over his, just briefly, and the pleasure in his body intensifies, then crests. Tom has left his mind with a flourish, wringing every last bit of James dry as he did so.

All at once, his mind clears and the café returns to focus around him, customers bustling through and the aroma of freshly brewed tea and coffee overwhelming him. Tom is sitting across from him again as though he never left, watching James closely. James feels like he's just had four orgasms and been beaten up in between. He plants his elbows on the table and runs his hands over his face and up through his hair, breathing hard.

"We are meant to rule," repeats Tom quietly, taking a sip from his still-steaming cup.

James looks up at him. He wants to know how to do what Tom just did. He wants to know how to be powerful. Slowly, he nods.

***

**x. scream**

Later, Mum will come flying down the stairs, gripping the kitchen door and gasping for breath. "_Harry_," she will plead, staggering over to Dad. "Make it stop. Make him _stop_." She will drag her hands over her forehead and press down, as if trying to block out images in her mind.

A wave of terror will pass through James. He will not be able to move, even as Dad and Al rush to her.

"He's back," she will whisper, her face pale and her hands trembling. "Harry, how is he back?"

"I don't know," Dad will say, swallowing hard. "Come here, sit down. Al, get some water."

"He's– he remembers me," Mum will mutter, her face still in her hands. "He's showing me things, the things he did to me before."

James's mouth will dry out. He knows about those things, or at least, he knows what he's read. Is there more? Did Tom's silky voice and crisp suit seduce James's mother the way they had James? His fingers will go numb, and he will have to remind himself to breathe. "Mum," he will whisper, "what has he told you?"

When she pulls her hands away from her head, Mum will look at him with something James will interpret as understanding. He is not wrong. She will blink at him once, twice, her mouth falling open, before she will shove her chair back and cross over to him. She will frame his face with her hands and gaze at him. "_You_," she will breathe, as if just realising it. "He told me he met you and– oh, sweetheart." She will smile sadly at him, but her face will relax in relief. "I knew," she will whisper. "Your poems, your writing, the way you never had any interest in– Oh, I always knew. Why didn't you tell me?"

She will wrap him in her arms and he will let her, his head falling to her shoulder.

"He told you that you're beautiful, didn't he, that you could be his?" she will whisper, and James will have to bite back a sob. Oh, God, he's been so _stupid_. "No, shh, don't be ashamed." She will pull back and look at him, her eyes shining. "He's so handsome, isn't he? So charming."

"I'm sorry," James will murmur, clutching her sleeves like he used to when he was little.

"Gin?" Dad will venture, his voice quiet.

She will raise her voice again so Dad and Al can hear, but her gaze will stay on James. "He told me he met you, that he's doing this for you, that you're with him now, and that we–" She will stop, her eyes suddenly wild as she glances back at Dad and Al.

"What?" Dad will demand. "That we're what?"

When she doesn't answer, Dad will look between Mum and James before slamming his hand down on the table.

"Dammit, James, this isn't a joke! Twelve senior Aurors were just found dead at their desks and they've got Tom Riddle's magical signature all over them. I don't know how he did it, but he's found a way to come back, and if he's murdering at that rate again, he's only got one goal." He will shake his head slowly, his hands trembling. "I don't know how he's even got a fucking soul left after all we did before, but he's splitting it in fragments again – even more this time. And there isn't a family alive he wants to kill more than ours, do you understand me? So you are going to tell me what you know, and you're going to tell me _now_. And Ginny–" He will turn to Mum, his chest heaving. "So help me, but you are going to finish that sentence. James is _with him_ now, Christ, whatever that means, and the rest of us – we're what?"

Mum will press her lips together and bow her head, but she won't be crying anymore. She understands Tom; James can see this now. Maybe she always has. Finally, she will grip James's hand and look Dad in the eye.

"We're in his way."

***

**xi. hollow**

"Have you answered your own question yet?"

"Yes," whispers James, only later pausing to wonder how he understood Tom's meaning.

Tom inclines his head, tapping one finger on the rim of his saucer. "Well, then? Who am I?"

James opens his mouth and pauses, huffing out a short laugh. "I– this is insane." He rubs the back of his neck. "You can't be."

Tom's face is still.

"I– okay. No games, right? No lies."

"None." Tom speaks definitively at that. "I never lie, and I expect the same from you."

James nods. "Great men, yeah?" He is still reeling, his mind not quite right, but it all makes so much _sense_. He holds out his hand. "Tom bloody _Riddle_?" He laughs incredulously. "Are you– I mean, honestly, are you for real?"

Tom takes the offered hand and shakes it – crisp, once – before dropping it. "I think so."

"What are you– I mean, how did you even get here?"

Tom's mouth curves up, and he lifts his index finger to his lips, as if he intends to keep that secret. "Maybe someday I'll tell you, James Potter."

James grins back, seized by a confidence he never knew he had. Tom Riddle, here in his neighbourhood café, having a cuppa with him like they're friends? Tom Riddle, offering to be his _lover_? It is too surreal, but also exhilarating. He doesn't seem that dangerous, now that James has actually met the legend from the history books. Maybe his legacy got embellished a bit. James has been sitting with this man all afternoon; he has kissed him, discussed intimate things with him. James can't quite believe that any of that would have been possible if Tom truly were some Dark sorcerer. He leans forward, grinning. "All right, maybe you are. Prove it."

Tom is not amused. His face still even, he glances over his shoulder. His eyes land on the cute cashier, leaning back against the counter and sifting through the contents of the tip jar to pass the time until the next rush comes in. With a single, swift movement, Tom reaches up and brushes a non-existent speck of dust from his shoulder. As he does so, the cashier goes very still, his mouth gaping. He drops the jar and his hands rush for his neck, pulling at his shirt. Gasping, his face reddens and then purples and then fades, his knuckles white where they grip his collar.

"Stop," James croaks, his eyes darting between the cashier and Tom.

Tom regards him for a moment and then shrugs. He waves his hand in the cashier's direction again, and the wheezing stops. Gasping for air, the man breathes in deeply and coughs. Customers glance up but have barely noticed the entire scene. The cashier hits himself on the chest and sputters, but colour returns to his face and with shaking hands, he eases himself into a chair.

"What do you want?"

Tom eyes him. "I don't lie, and I don't compel. Remember that."

"I know." James glances back at the cashier. "I mean, I can see that. But you–" He thinks about how best to phrase this. "You're here. I'm here. You picked me." He thinks he must look a bit too earnest, but he doesn't care. "Didn't you?"

That slow smile is back, lighting up Tom's severe features. "Indeed I did, James," he says quietly, tracing his fingers over the back of James's hand. "I see something in you, something the others don't."

A thrill slides up James's arm at the touch, and he can't decide if it's from commanding the attention of such a charming, handsome man for the first time in his life, or from the rush of having some mad reincarnation of the most powerful wizard of all time on _his_ team. Maybe both.

Al would be _so_ jealous if he knew.

***

**xii. open**

Later, Dad will believe he and Al have adequately protected the house. They will all gather in the living room.

At Mum's prompting, James will confess things to his father and wait for the quiet disappointment. It won't come. Al will shake his head, smiling knowingly as if he's just been informed that wands _can_ be used in winter and why hasn't he thought of that before, and then he'll make a crack about not needing to have been so afraid that James would steal Pamela from him. At the mention of her name, though, Al will fall silent again, mashing his lips together. Dad will come to sit beside James on the sofa and pull him into a tight hug, his jaw strong against James's hair.

"Always been proud of you," he'll say gruffly, and James will have to hold himself together, because isn't that just the kicker? _Now_ Dad's proud of him. Now, of all nights.

When James finally senses that the wind has died down, when his mind bloats with images of Tom, he will stand on steady legs and move to open the front door. Ignoring his family's attempts to stop him, James will assure him that he'll be all right, that he just wants to see something.

What he will see when he ventures outside will be Tom casually approaching the lane, the sides of his jacket rucked up to allow his hands to slip easily into his trouser pockets. The suit will be impeccable, wrapping his strong frame in cool, matte fabric. He will pause when he sees James, and his face will relax in a slow smile.

"James," he will say, rolling the word around in his mouth.

"Don't." James won't be able to do anything but beg. "I made a mistake. Please don't. Tom, _please_."

Tom will ignore him. "Your father's house." He will stand back to appraise the modest house, nodding. "My apologies for the delay," he will add, flecking a bit of dust from his lapel. "I had some business at the Ministry." The moonlight will catch the glint in his eye, and James's stomach will cramp.

"No," he'll whisper, shaking his head. "Don't do this. I'll do anything. You can–" He'll swallow, stepping forward and squaring his shoulders. "You can take me instead."

"James, James," Tom will whisper, his voice soothing. He will reach out to cup the side of James's face and then lean in gently. When his lips brush over James's, James will feel a deep impulse to let him in, to push his fingers in Tom's hair and part his lips and let Tom do anything, anything he wants. When they break apart, Tom will rest his forehead against James's, smiling against his mouth. "It's too late."

Letting his hand slide away from James's face, Tom will walk up the path to the house and slowly climb the steps, as James falls to his knees.

***

**xiii. close**

"If this were a story you're writing," asks Tom, "how would it end?"

James considers the question. Tom's cup has finally emptied, only the tarred remnants of coffee dredged in the bottom. "I don't know," he admits at last. "Endings need something... momentous."

"Cataclysmic."

James grins. "Extraordinary."

Tom straightens his tie and rebuttons the top of his shirt. He smooths the lock of hair back that keeps falling onto his forehead, and then he looks at James intently. "I need you to do something for me now, James. To end the story."

James is caught off guard. He doesn't want it to end. "I– but–"

"You thought it was just beginning?" Tom smiles. "Yes. It is. But we must move along." He glances around the café, and this time his disdain is not hidden. James follows his eyes to the door. "Earlier," says Tom, leaning forward and holding James's gaze, "you asked me to take you home with me." He wets his lips, his tongue slow and his smile almost shy now. James's stomach flutters at the memory, the simmering attraction he has felt all afternoon flaring to life again. "Alas, I've no home to go to." His mouth turns down, even as his fingers rise to sweep down James's jaw. His thumb brushes James's bottom lip, making him shiver. "Will you take me to yours?"

For a moment, James considers falling into the fantasy, imagining a future of sex and power and everything he's ever dreamed of coming true in a heartbeat, all with Tom at his side. But even though he might not have six N.E.W.T.s like Al, he's not an idiot. He reaches up and grabs Tom's wrist, pulling Tom's hand away from his face. Tom is startled, but his eyes continue to smoulder. He gazes at James with what James imagines is respect. "Are you trying to seduce me to get what you want?"

Tom doesn't miss a beat. "Are you averse to that?"

"No." James grins, letting go of Tom's hand. "A toy boy, then?"

Standing and pushing his chair back, Tom moves around to James's side of the table. He leans down close, one arm on each of the edges of the chair on either side of James, and lets his cheek slide over James's. When his lips are hovering over James's ear, he speaks again. "I picked you because you _are_ extraordinary, and you let yourself be picked because you know it. Nobody knows it but the two of us. Not your father, not your mother, and certainly not that spoilt brother of yours."

God, those lips near his ear are making his blood warm all over. James can't help it; he reaches up and slides a hand over the side of Tom's face, lodging his fingers in his thick, dark hair.

"I've no need for a toy boy," murmurs Tom, allowing James to continue touching him, "and I've no need for an apprentice. But I recognise your power, James Potter. It is time you recognise it yourself. We could do great things together. Do you want that?"

"Yes," breathes James, manoeuvering his hand in Tom's hair. He angles them until Tom's mouth is over his and then arches up to kiss him. He can feel the power that radiates from Tom's very core, lighting him from the inside out and manifesting itself in every single move Tom makes.

"Where do you live, James?" The words are barely a whisper, and James feels them wash over him.

He pauses, his lips hovering against Tom's mouth. "Make me great?" he murmurs.

Tom smiles, darting the tip of his tongue out to lap at James's bottom lip. "I'll do you better than that." He lets their tongues tangle briefly, almost playfully, before pulling back and straightening up. He smooths his palms over his suit jacket and holds James's gaze. "I shall make the great ones fall."

The café goes quiet at that, as if the pair of them have broken through the spell. Yes, this will make a great ending to an epic poem. James tries to capture the moment in his mind to recall it later. He rises, turns to push his chair in, and then returns to his original table to collect his things. He feels different than when he woke up that morning. He feels powerful.

With a single nod at Tom, James walks to the door of the café, takes a deep breath, and pushes it open. He emerges into the deep glow of sunset, Tom right behind him and his breath of gratitude sliding down James's spine.

 

-fin-


End file.
